Abigail
by Oiche
Summary: The story of a Slayer who was called and "died" before Nikki Woods was called, set in 1970.


"Abigail

"Abigail!" Henrietta scolded her Slayer with a shake of her head. "Where have you been?"

"Sorry." Abi said, widening her eyes as she caught a glimpse of the clock on the wall. She dropped her guitar case and pulled off her long, leather jacket. "Mumma and Papa were hesitant to let me leave; their favourite Russian ballet company is in town tonight."

"Fine, just, try not to let it happen again. A sloppy slayer is a dead slayer." Henrietta enthused, not seeing Abi miming the words behind her back.

"So, what's up?" Abi asked, hopping gracefully onto her Watcher's desk.

"Please get down" Henrietta said offhandedly, resigned to her slayer's petulant behaviour, before turning to her bookshelf. "Your tutors are very happy dear, academically you are one of our smartest Slayers yet, your speed, agility, strength and skill rival that of a demi-god and your tactics are formidable. But…we…well, I…am worried about you."

"Why!?" Abi demanded defensively, jumping up from the table.

"Darling, I've been your watcher for the past five years, I know you and love you like a sister. I can tell that there is something wrong."

"I'm fine! Better than fine, fantastic!"

"I really think-" Henrietta insisted.

"No! There is nothing at all the matter! Leave it alone, Henri, leave it alone."

"But-"

"Just tell me about the current nasty and let me leave."

Henrietta sighed deeply, knowing that her stubborn Slayer wasn't in the mood for a heart-to-heart she decided to pursue the matter at a later date. She lifted a heavy book from the shelf and passed it to Abi. Abi gave her Watcher a quizzical look then opened the book to the marked page.

"It's the Watcher's journal for a colonial Slayer in 1902. These pages account the last month of her life. She lived in Louisiana and she made an enemy of a warlock turned vampire. Elgor was his name and he became extremely angered by the Slayer, Annette, thwarting each and every one of his schemes. Before he exacted his revenge on her personally, Elgor killed her village, then her fiancé, then turned her twin brother Luc. When he'd completely broken her spirit and heart Elgor finally murdered her." Henrietta explained as Abi scanned through the Watcher's entries "Elgor is back on the scene and now he is in London."

Abi looked at the last photo of the Slayer and her family. It brought tears to Abi's eyes, she could relate to the sadness that tinged the Slayer's happiness, the weariness that weighed her down. Envy seeped into her veins when she saw the Slayer's fiancé, Abi had never consorted with boys all that frequently and doubted she'd live long enough to become engaged, she'd die young and alone. This Slayer was beautiful, her hair was long, thick and wavy, her face was perfectly symmetrical and delicate. Her brother stood next to her beaming proudly. He was gorgeous; strong chin, amazing cheekbones, striking eyes, adorably unruly hair and full lips that pulled back to bare perfect teeth and the tip of a cheeky tongue.

Abi flung the photo and book down on the table and stood up abruptly, wiping tears away with the back of her hand. She turned her back to her Watcher.

"What am I to do?"

Henrietta stared worriedly at her Slayer's back. Where had that excitable, witty, giddy, sweet girl she'd first met gone? But Henri knew really; five years as a Slayer had squashed her spirit, her Slayer was losing her will to live and without that she was an easy kill.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Henri asked evenly.

"Yes" Abi said without turning "I just want to get this bastard."

"Okay" Henri nodded clearly uncertain as to what to say "Okay, well…"

The docks were cold and windy. I clutched the teasing silk coat to me but it had no effect against the chill of approaching winter. I'd loved the docks as a girl. It was always so vibrant, so alive. Everything was true, strong, and honest; the smells were over-powering and not always pleasant. The air was always whipping and exhilarating, it always tasted salty. The people were coarse and loud. I suppose the whole place was just a relief to the stifling staidness and quiet of the Watchers council where I'd grown up. Here, it felt alive; there was as dead as the things I was chosen to hunt.

I paced along the dirty promenade, relishing in the foam that was bouncing off the high walls surrounding the water and dousing me. It was good to know that I could still feel. Sometimes I think that I might just be an enchanted statue. Sometimes I forget that I'm a real girl, my skin feels soft to the touch from the outside but from the inside, where I am, it is hard and rough as stone. My limbs feel weighed down because while I'm free I'm also a prisoner to who I am. I am tied to my duty, a heavy burden that will always stalk me. I will never rest until that blissful second when resting is all I will ever know forever. These thoughts scare me, I don't want to die, and yet I do. Then I will be done, protecting this world will be someone else's chore.

Suddenly it happened again, the sorrow, with too many roots to really pin the blame to any one reason, hit me like a harsh slap across the face. I fell to my knees right there on the promenade and shivered as I tried to work through the pain.

They say that you'll never be disappointed if you never hope. How true those words are, yet I was cursed with a romantic soul, because the moment I was chosen I dreamed. I would be the longest living Slayer. I'd crush the forces of evil. I'd have a husband and lots of pretty children. I'd have a career, maybe as a doctor, and I'd help people day and night. I'd be a poet and write with such eloquence that I'd be remembered forevermore.

But that won't happen. I'll never be able to stop them all. Evil will always be there, maybe it will hide in the shadows of the eve, but it will still linger. It would be like trying to stop the sun from rising and setting, or trying to tame the oceans. It will never be done.

And trying in vain to stop evil will lead to my death. My early, unnecessary death. Being on guard for your demise is wearying. It eats away at you if you are constantly looking over your shoulder or attempting to stay five steps ahead of your enemy. My enemy is everywhere, it is eternal, it is vicious and it wants my blood.

I gasped as I tried not to cry, as I tried to choke back sobs. I had a sacred duty and while I begrudged it I still loved this flawed world too much to let the demons destroy it.

I stood on the roof of a factory and watched the Slayer. She was stunning. I'd never seen a Slayer quite as beautiful as she. Her hair was like waves of honey with cinnamon stirred into it and flowed down her back. Her face was as if it had been pieced together with segments of goddesses; her straight nose; her delicate, slightly unruly brows; her misty blue eyes like an angry ocean were full of spunk and attitude; her lips like two passionate lovers, they caressed each other in a way that made me envy the full bottom lip for its meeting with the curvy top and the top for its hugging of the bottom; her freckled cheeks gave away the youth that confidence made one overlook.

Her posture was straight and proud. This girl knew who she was. The sway of her hips and the surety of her steps were hypnotising. She was truly sublime.

She paused in her movements and breathed the way all Slayers do; deep and sad. Her sigh echoed faintly in the empty space and she stood for a moment. She seemed to be trying to compose herself. Her laboured breathing made her chest heave as control slipped through her fingers and she slid to her knees.

I watched her fall to the ground and my demon yelled in fury. It despised what duty had done to this proud warrior and it shocked me. My demon was more reasonable than most but the protectiveness it held for this girl disturbed me greatly. She had wormed her way into my undead, unbeating heart and I'd not even spoken to her yet!

For once the demon insisted upon having his way and pushed himself to the fore. He snarled at the fledge below that was approaching what he now considered his. I knew then that I was fucked. If the demon wanted her this much then my weak heart was likely to be only a pace behind, and sure enough, the thought of her no longer gracing the earth had my long dead self screaming in indignation.

The snarl I had emitted caused the vampire below to falter in his steps and knock over a barrel. The Slayer's head snapped up and she turned those vibrant eyes on the vampire. They narrowed in disgust and she jumped to her feet, not allowing the bumbling vampire even a second to regain his composure.

She launched herself at him and straddled him. I had to stop myself from going down there and ripping him out from under her and tearing him apart. I had to work doubly hard to stop my demon.

The Slayer reached toward the barrel and ripped a chunk of wood from it. Without pause she slammed the wood into the vampire's heart and stared dispassionately as he crumbled to dust. She turned her eyes from the pile of dust and looked up to where the snarl that had saved her had come from. My eyes clashed with her and I winked before dashing away. I wanted so direly to stay and make her mine but knew that to her I was just demon scum.

'I'm a flame, I'll be intense and strong and then I'll begin to waver until suddenly I'll flicker and burn out.

I remember who I used to be. I was full of life, always laughing and happy. Now I can barely recall who that girl was. I think we may be two different people. I think she was a dream. I think I'm a nightmare. One of us is real; I'm not sure who though.'

This is what I was thinking as I walked into the 100 club. I liked it there. It was loud and harsh. The music pumped through you, strong, young, and empowered. I loved the people even more, they were all so ambitious, and they had hope still left inside of them. When I was there I felt like the old me for hours at a time.

The punk ideal was me in a nutshell. It burned a person up on the inside until there was nothing left, like Slayers, punks aren't built to last. We're both tough on the outside but on the inside we're soft and fragile. I can see that. I saw it every time I looked at Sid over there.

But I refused to wallow that night, in my bones I could feel my end nearing and I decided to live life, because for a long time I'd been going through the motions without living, not anymore. The Pistols, the Clash and the Damned were all playing tonight and the Ramones were on their way to England. I would enjoy it, every second.

I nodded at a couple of people I knew and ducked into the bathroom. I couldn't be seen there in my Council appropriate clothes, even if they weren't remotely tame.

I shimmied out of my torn jeans and silk waistcoat before slipping into fishnets; heavy, black, knee-high, Docs that were decorated by little daisies that were painted on in white nail varnish; a black, super-short, ice-skater's skirt; and a tiny white camisole. I bunched everything in a ball and shoved it in my guitar-case then hopped out the door to the comforting wailing of Johnny Rotten.

I circled the room, scanning it all the while for my friends. Tonight I was gonna burn brightly.


End file.
